


the kids don't stand a chance

by ithacas



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 01:30:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ithacas/pseuds/ithacas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. The one where they’re all a mess. Sex, drugs and sixth form basically. "And when Louis runs away, none of them know if he’s alive or dead until he knocks on Harry’s window and smiles instead of saying sorry. And Harry forgives him, every single time; they all forgive him, as though he hasn’t broken them up in pieces, because he’s the one keeping them together."</p>
            </blockquote>





	the kids don't stand a chance

_"_ Maybe…you’ll fall in love with me all over again.”  
“Hell,” I said, “I love you enough now. What do you want to do? Ruin me?”  
“Yes. I want to ruin you.”  
“Good,” I said. “That’s what I want too.”  
_― Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms_  
  
  
He’s kissing someone in the dark, pressing her back against the corner of the bar as his hand almost lazily finds itself under her skirt. Somewhere in the back of his mind he tries to remember her name and feels kind of a dick about it being on the tip of his tongue but _fuck_ it; he’s more than a little drunk and, by the sound of it, the only name on _her_ mind is his as she moans it breathlessly into his ear. His fingers flex instinctively inside her and he can feel her pulse speed up as the corners of his mouth lift in a familiar smile. By the time the lights start flashing around them in time with the next song - something by Katy Perry, he thinks, but who the fuck cares anyway - they’re both resting boneless against each other and the girl is sucking at his bottom lip with her teeth. “That was fun,” he whispers, closer to her mouth than her ear but she nods all the same, ruffling his hair.  
  
“See ya, Harry.”  
  
There’s a chorus of cheers as he makes his way back to the table and he grins completely unabashed as Niall hands him a shot and pats him roughly on the back. “She was _fit_ , man.” He shrugs and locks the glass between his lips, eyes watering a little as the tequila burns the back of his throat. Of course she was hot, the people he gets off with hardly ever weren’t, but it doesn’t really matter all that much now. He’ll say goodbye if he sees her before he leaves, kiss her on the cheek and maybe promise a repeat of tonight’s activities with a wink but right now all he wants to do was get pissed and dance. The shot glass goes flying into Zayn’s lap that’s already a little too crowded - “Fuck _off_ , Styles, you _wanker_.” - and Harry feels someone grab him from behind and drag him to the tightly packed bodies on the dance floor. His face hurts from smiling as Louis spins him to face each other and he laughs as he digs his fingers into his best friend’s hips.  
  
Louis says nothing and Harry presses a thumb on his lips, biting down his own, taking in how pink and kiss swollen they are and thinks _mine_ but they’re _not_.  He shakes his hair out of his face and leans his head against Louis’ in the steady beat and sweaty skin surrounding him.  
  
At three in the morning, they’re the last at the club yet again, sprawled out in a haphazard mess over the floor littered with broken glass, dizzy grins glued on their faces. Zayn’s already gone with some bird or another in tow, Niall’s sharing a last pint with the barwoman, their annoyingly coherent whispers doing Harry’s decidedly unsober head in and Liam’s sleeping like a baby on somebody’s shoulder. The rest of their crowd is in various states of dizziness, piled on top of one another and sharing a bag of greasy chips someone sneaked in earlier.  
  
A text from his sister reminds him that he’d better start making his way home, his empty pockets alerting him to the fact that he’ll have to walk. Stretching and groaning, he stands up and untangles himself from someone’s arms. He blows a kiss in Liam’s direction - a flapping hand isn’t much of a reply - and makes an attempt to catch Louis’ attention, though it’s a little hard to concentrate on anything other than the spinning room.  
  
“Stand straight, Haz.” The amused drawl comes out of nowhere as far as Harry’s concerned but he accepts the arm slipping around his waist anyway and they both head out into the night, goodbyes echoing behind them. A few minutes in the cold air - shit, he’s forgotten his coat _again_ \- and he blinks a little of his drunken state away but still presses tight to Louis, nuzzling his head into his best mate’s neck.  
  
“Sick night, wasn’t it? You look done in though, babe.” He feels Louis’ hand slap him gently into wakefulness and smiles slowly at the blue eyes staring up at him fondly.  
  
He hums in the back of his throat and just leans closer, grateful for Louis’ warmth. They walk the miles from town in companionable silence after that, occasionally interrupted by Louis mumbling a tune to keep Harry awake, morning light pushing through the cloudy overhead sky. Finally, Louis lets go of him at the gate of his house, eyeing the drawn up curtains gratefully. “Looks like your mum’s still asleep. Got your keys?”  
  
Harry jingles them in front of his face, still keeping a grip on him. “Come up.”  
  
Louis laughs quietly. “I have to get home, Haz.”  
  
Harry simply presses tighter against him, breathing in secondhand smoke and stale booze. “I won’t be able to sleep.”  
  
“You’re so codependent.”  
  
“You _love_ me.”  
  
Louis doesn’t answer, just puts his hands more firmly around him, a look on his face that Harry is in no state to interpret. He leans against the door and slips the keys Harry hands him as silently as he can into the lock. There’s a hiss as they push it open and Harry groans at the Cat staring at him threateningly - it’s never really been known as anything other than the Cat. He kicks it softly in the belly (the bastard has never liked him) and it meows in protest, still low enough not to wake anyone. Leaving their shoes by the door, Louis’ hand tight over his mouth to stop Harry from giggling, they head up the stairs, skipping the fifth step that always creaks. They pass the first two doors silently before Harry doubles back and sticks his head in each of the rooms, checking in on his mum and Gemma, Louis shaking his head exasperatedly even though he’s smiling. Satisfied, he drags Louis to the end of the narrow hallway into the smallest bedroom, bumping his knees into the desk just as always. He sheds his clothes off blindly, throwing them over a chair and slipping under the sheets, pulling Louis down with him.  
  
He makes a muffled protesting sound as he feels himself press closer to Louis’ jeans. “Get naked, you fucker,” he whispers softly, pressing his head to fit in the crook between Louis’ arm and neck.  
  
“Go to sleep, love.”  
  
Two hours later and his alarm clock springs to life, Chris Moyles’ voice not really easing him awake. He paws around the bed, eyes still shut, trying not to feel too hurt, knowing that Louis will have long gone. His long limbs push the damn alarm to the floor out of pure spite and he lies there groaning until Gemma - bless her soul - comes in with a cup of tea and a stack of toast.  
  
“Thought you’d need to keep your strength up,” she smiles coyly, slipping into bed next to him and nibbling on a piece of toast. “Lou says he’ll see you at school.”  
  
“You saw him?” Harry’s voice is rough and it hurts to talk until he’s taken a gulp of tea, sticking his tongue out when it scalds him.  
  
“Idiot,” Gem rolls her eyes. “Yeah, he left through my window. Not a bad way to wake up, to be honest.”  
  
Harry gives her a murderous look before dragging himself out of bed and into the bathroom, wincing at the state of him in the mirror.  
  
“Tired, love?” His mum presses a kiss on his hair as he stands at the doorframe of the kitchen and he shakes his head, loosening the grey tie around his neck. “Best get going, the bus’ll be around soon.”  
  
The school bus hardly makes an effort in hitting the breaks before he slams through the doors that never shut properly and drops himself into the seat next to Liam.  
  
“Don’t talk to me.” Liam’s voice is rasping and Harry has to laugh at the sunglasses he’s made a point of wearing.  
  
“Rough night, Li?”  
  
“This is all your fault.”  
  
“Hey, no one forced you to come out on a school night.”  
  
Liam makes a noise like a kicked puppy and slumps beside him, clutching his bag like a blanket. Harry has to help him get up when the bus finally screeches into a halt in the school grounds, guiding him carefully down the steps until they catch up with Niall and Zayn, who’s already smoking a ciggie, cool as cucumber. “Get that out of my face, man,” he coughs, waving the smoke away. Zayn shrugs and flicks the cigarette butt to the floor, heel digging into it, before looking at Liam with amusement. “And I thought I was a mess. Had a threesome, Leeyum?”  
  
Recovering somewhat and turning a deep tomato red, Liam aims a hand into Zayn’s chest and they bicker all the way into school, each trying to land a better punch than the other. Harry watches them with a smile, knuckle trying to push the sleep from his eyes.  
  
“Where’s Tommo?” Niall frowns, turning around to see if Louis is sneaking up on them. Harry shrugs half-heartedly, something twisting in his stomach. He’d usually have a text from Louis by now, ribbing him about last night’s exploits but something tells him it‘s one of Louis’ dark days. He gets like that sometimes, walks out on him instead of trying to convince him to skip school in favour of sleep and Harry’s usually left to deal with the mess when he comes back. He taps nervously against his phone, willing for a text or missed call or anything.  
  
“What’ve we got first?  
  
Niall snorts, his mouth half full of something with too much pastry. “Like you don’t know. The Flackster would be disappointed.”  
  
Almost as a reflex, Harry stops slouching, standing up a little straighter, making himself push all thoughts of Louis back. It’s no secret that he harbours more than a little crush on their Media Studies teacher - you’d be hard pressed to find one person in college who _doesn’t_ know, if he’s totally honest. It’s not like he makes any effort to hide it, sitting in front of the class with a doe-eyed look on his face, mumbling his words more than usual, _actually_ blushing whenever she turns her attention to him. He knows for a fact Niall and Zayn have a betting pool going on whether she falls for his charms or not; from what he’s seen, most people have got their money on him failing spectacularly and getting expelled before Christmas. Charming.  
  
They pile into the classroom with the others, Harry taking his usual seat front and center, flashing a smile in Caroline’s direction. She returns it warmly, with a little shake of her head.  
  
It isn’t the most riveting class but Caroline’s legs more than make up for it as she walks down the aisles between the desks. Harry doesn’t even pretend to pay attention to anything else and it’s surprising to hear the bell ring suddenly, stirring him from his stupor. He slides his pen behind his ear and motions to Niall that he’ll meet him later - Niall smirks and gives him a thumbs up.  
  
“What now, Harry?” She sounds almost convincingly exasperated as he approaches her desk.  
  
“Just, um,  thought I’d mention how interesting I found today’s lesson?” The cheeky smile is firm in place when she looks up at him.  
  
“Liar,” she mirrors his grin and stands up, fixing his fringe to her liking. “You barely heard a word, don’t think I wasn’t watching.”  
  
“Glad you were.” He leans into her touch and closes the little distance between them, pushing her against her desk. She laughs.  
  
“ _Seventeen_ , Harry.”  
  
“Age of consent’s sixteen.”  
  
“I’m your _teacher_.”  
  
“Semantics.”  
  
“Oh, big word, schoolboy.”  
  
It’s a familiar game, this back-and-forth banter, and it’s always him that pushes a little further, testing her boundaries until she says stop. He cocks his head to the side and ghosts his words over her lips, breathing her in. “I’m not a kid, Caroline.” He nudges his nose against hers and she lets him, surprisingly enough, her fingers still locked around his curls. Trusting that she’ll pull him away if he took it too far, he dips his head down - taller than her by quite a bit now - pressing his mouth to hers. She sighs heavily but doesn’t pull away immediately, tightening her fingers through his hair. It catches him completely by surprise but he smiles into the kiss, relishing the taste of lipstick and coffee that feels so grown-up on his tongue.  
  
It doesn’t last long - they’re in school, for fuck’s sake, and Niall only pushed the door half-closed, the stupid twat - but they’re both grinning when they pull apart.  
  
“Well, that was,” he coughs, his voice croaky and breathless, “that was unexpected.”  
  
Caroline’s poker face far surpasses his own. “If I’m not mistaken, you have history now, Harry. You’d better get a move on.”  
  
There’s a little more buoyancy to his step as he walks down the hallway and he’s fighting a losing battle trying to keep the grin from his face. One look at him and the rest of them would know exactly what went on. And, the truth is, he isn’t ready to share that story quite just yet. He glances around covertly and slips Liam’s glasses over his eyes - he nicked them earlier when Liam was dying on the bus - before making a run for it.  
  
The high doesn’t last long though; maybe the sun’s too bright as he jumps over the gate, maybe he’s still hungover, maybe the weight of his silent phone is suddenly too heavy. He pulls out his phone from his back pocket, ignoring Niall’s texts, and stares intently at his address book before dialing the number he promised himself he wouldn’t. He traps his lower lip between his teeth, holding the speaker to his mouth, and shuts his eyes. There’s a shake to his hands as he hears the steady beep on the other end and he finds himself wishing for one of Zayn’s fags.  
  
_Pick up, pick up, pick up._  
  
He doesn’t.

 

***

  
He exhales the smoke he’s kept in his lungs, burning his lips as it fades into the fog.  Near him, a couple more agitated smokers get their fix, playing nervously with their emptying cartons. He gives one of them a bleary smile - the girl, blonde straggly hair, mascara smudged down her cheek but pretty - and turns when he feels a finger on his face. Zayn is frowning softly beside him, sticking a thumb where Harry’s dimples should be, trying to force something other than the lost look he’s been wearing lately. It doesn’t work. Harry blinks, trying to focus on anything except his reflection staring back at him through Zayn’s glasses, green eyes red rimmed and hair a fucking mess.  
  
“Give us a smile, babe. Please.”  
  
He should make an attempt, however half hearted, and he would, in any other case, but now he can barely stand on both feet without a hand to steady him. His head is swimming because of the pills Nick gave them - a pat on Harry’s cheek, ‘keep it together, love’, a knowing look to Zayn - all white and bright and glossy, making his tongue feel numb and heavy, making his limbs feel they’re on fire.  
  
“I thought these were s’posed to make you feel good,” he manages to whisper, his head cushioned on Zayn’s jacket. His voice is wrecked, rough and unused, like he’s forgotten how to talk.  
  
“Not the way you’ve been swallowing them. Don’t you think it’s time to go home?” His hand is threading through Harry’s hair and it’s comforting. Comforting and wrong. He wants to laugh and he must do, because Zayn is looking more worried now, pressing a palm against Harry’s forehead, wiping away the sweat.  
  
“C’mon then, get up, we’re off.”  
  
Harry barely moves, just slumps over Zayn’s shoulders and lets him drag him along. It’s not even properly dark yet; he can see street lamps turning on as they walk and people in suits frowning as they walk by. He can’t even imagine what a strange sight they make; both still in school uniforms, Zayn with his sleeves pushed back to stubbornly reveal his tattoos and Harry, looking like death probably, fingers wrapped tight around his phone. He counts the messages he’s left - something to concentrate on other than the dull buzzing in his head - and it can’t be less than fifty, getting gradually less coherent as he realised Louis wasn’t going to answer.  
  
“D’you think he’s dead?”  
  
Zayn stops in the middle of the street and Harry blinks as he tries to recognise his surroundings, his insides turning so fast he feels like he’s going to throw up any second now. They must be heading to Zayn’s, if the picket fences and red-bricked houses are anything to go by. He’s counting door numbers in a transfixed sort of state when Zayn grabs him roughly by the jaw, bringing him down to his height.  
  
“Don’t you ever fucking say that again, Haz, OK? Not ever. You’re not the only one who’s missing him.”  
  
Zayn doesn’t get angry, is the thing. Zayn huffs and raises his eyebrows and makes you feel like a fucking prick but he’s quiet about it, lets you simmer until you know you’re wrong. This, this is new, this is scary and it makes Harry’s fingers bunch up in Zayn’s shirt to keep himself from falling. And he’s right, however much it might feel like he’s carrying this Louis-shaped hole with him all on his own, Zayn’s right. They’re all lost now; Liam working stubbornly at school, Niall laughing, not quite loud enough anymore and Harry fucking up with Zayn to clean up the mess. When Louis runs away - because that’s what it is, however many times it happens, Louis is running from something - none of them know if he’s alive or dead until he knocks on Harry’s window and smiles instead of saying sorry. And Harry forgives him, every single time; they all forgive him, as though he hasn’t broken them up in pieces, because he’s the one keeping them together.  
  
“I’m - sorry. I’m sorry, Zayn, I’m sorry. It’s - it’s just - it’s been eight days now. He’s never -” And he tries, desperately, to keep down the sobs, but what’s the point really.  
  
“I know, Haz, I know.” They clutch at each other and Harry feels like a kid, small and broken.  
  
“Hey, hey, no more o’ this now or I’ll never hear the end of it from the girls.” Zayn makes a face and wipes his nose, fixing a smile. He presses their foreheads together and laughs. “Now, let’s get you sobered up before Anne sees you. Stay at mine, we’ll catch up on Corrie and mum’s made shepherd’s pie, yeah?”  
  
He feels his breath ease a little, more because of Zayn’s voice than his words. “Proper hardcore, eh, Malik?”  
  
“You’re hardcore enough for the both of us, mate. C’mon, one step at a time.”

 

***

  
He wakes up at 01:03, curled up in a ball at the foot of his bed as though it’s too big for him to fit. He drags his eyes open, focusing on the light from outside that’s slipping through the curtains, trying to figure out what the dull beating against his head is. He has to sit up and press his feet on the cold floor before he makes sense of the sound, heart practically jumping to his mouth when he does. His hand flies to his phone - half finished text to Liam but nothing else - and then he’s standing up, bumping into every piece of furniture in the narrow room until he’s at the window.  
  
Louis’ there, just as he knew he would be, sitting on the swing Harry’s dad had screwed into the ground years ago, shoes dragging on the grass. His arms are entwined around the rope and his head’s lifted up just enough to be able to keep Harry’s window in sight. He can’t see his eyes from here - it’s too dark - but he there’s no imagining that blue anywhere. He flicks his wrist suddenly and Harry barely flinches this time when the pebble hits the window pane. For a moment - just one, fleeting - he wishes he could say no, draw the curtains and go back to bed but his hands are already reaching blindly for a shirt, not bothering to tie up his shoelaces.  
  
It must have rained in the night because their garden is damp and he already feels chilly, goosebumps travelling up his arms as he hooks his thumbs in the jeans he’s been living in lately. He stops a few steps away, careful not to be within reach but Louis stands up anyway, not leaving any space between them. "Hey, Haz," he says softly, his words careful as though he's afraid Harry might run away (he makes no promises not to). Harry doesn't speak - he can't - his throat is too parched for that and if he opens his mouth he's scared of what he might say, so he waits for an explanation - any explanation.  
  
Louis sighs like he expected nothing more. "I know I've been a right fucking cunt, I should've said something, I know I was off a while  -"  
  
"Ten days." He croaks out the words without wanting to and notes how Louis flinches at the rough edge to his voice. Ten days and he's marked every single one, digging his nails into his palm each day his phone calls went unanswered. Ten days and ten scars to match, all with Louis's name etched with them. He wants to laugh at how dramatic he's being but it comes out hollow, more like a sob than anything.  
  
"Harry. I...I was fine, I _am_ fine -"  
  
"I wasn't. I'm not. I thought you were gone for good this time, Lou. It's been ten fucking days!" There's the anger he's been burying, all this time, simmering at the surface and ready to blow but his resolve crumbles at Louis' face. Because the fact is, he's relieved; it's washing over him in waves, because Louis' here, Louis' OK, and he's not sure anything else matters now, as long as he can reach out a hand and tether Louis to him. He presses his nails into his hand to keep himself from doing just that and lets himself take one step closer, just to make sure Louis' real. His breath catches in his chest as he shifts into the light and finally sees Louis properly; there's something red and blotchy just under his eyes that Harry has enough experience to know is a bruise.  
  
"Lou, your face." His voice breaks as he talks and he's cupping Louis' cheek without meaning to. Louis doesn't shrug away, just winces a little at the contact but presses until he has Harry's hand trapped.  
  
"It's nothing, Harry."  
  
"Lou, that's not nothing..."  
  
"I promise. Nothing." He bites his lips and grins. "I've not lied to you yet, have I?"  
  
No, that's something Harry can still count on, even if everything else has gone to shit. "You're hurt. Come in, mum's got a first aid kit in the kitchen somewhere."  
  
Louis' hand fits in Harry's and they walk quietly into the warmth of the house, padding barefoot into the kitchen after Louis kicks off his Converse. He lifts himself on the counter, just as he has so many times before, and Harry sets to work, hands shaking only a little as he wipes away the dried blood. "Tell me if it stings, yeah?"  
  
"I've never been one to keep quiet now, have I, Hazza?" Harry laughs like he can't help it and Louis' triumphant smile makes him ache. He wipes ointment across Louis' cheekbone, careful not to press too hard, then makes a face at his handiwork. "It's a mess but it'll do."  
  
"Best nurse I've ever had."  
  
"Wanker." Harry shuts his eyes, because it's a little too much, to have Louis here after so long. He splays his hands on either side of Louis and bumps his head against his chest. Louis' hand card through his hair almost instinctively and Harry bites his cheek to keep from purring at the sensation.  
  
"I missed you, Harry." It's whispered so low he's not sure he's meant to have heard it.  
  
"I missed you more."  
  
"Not possible." He can hear the sad smile in Louis' voice and he lifts his head straight away. His eyes are crinkled and his face looks sore but there's a sadness there Harry can't stand, so he fixes it, the best way he knows. He bumps their noses together like a puppy and keeps doing until Louis giggles and gives him permission. Their mouths slot together like two puzzle pieces and Harry licks a smile into them until Louis is laughing helplessly. His hands slide up to hold Louis steady, fitting around his waist and Louis' fingers dig into Harry's skull, pulling him closer. Their breathing is ragged when they break apart but they're both smiling as they do, identical kiss bruised lips stretched so wide they ache.  
  
"You're staying tonight." It's not a question.  
  
"Not tonight, love."  
  
Harry almost feels himself fall to pieces. "Louis, don't you fucking dare -"  
  
Louis slides himself off the counter, pushing Harry gently back. "I've got to go home now. You're not the only who worried about me."  
  
"Jesus, Louis, of course I fucking know that, I know it better than you fucking k-" Louis shoots him a look that silences Harry more easily than anything else could.  
  
"I'll see you in the morning, OK?" He squeezes his arm once and makes his way through the dark hall. It takes all of Harry's willpower not to run after him and he stands on the cold kitchen tiles long after the door swings shut.

 

***

  
He untangles himself from the warm limbs on top of him and swings his legs over the bed, yawning as quiet as he can. He makes sure Caroline's covered before he stands up - he can't help the small smile that spreads on his face as she curls up around the blanket he covers her with - and makes his way into the living room, picking up his clothes as he walks. He gets his jeans on before he sits on the couch and slips his phone out of the back pocket. There's a missed call from Liam and a couple of incoherent texts from a (probably) drunk Niall, but nothing from Louis, a fairly conspicuous silence. He checks the time - three am - and fishes a cigarette from his shirt, scavenging around until he finds a lighter Caroline had used to light up some candles when he first got here. He takes a couple of drags of courage before he dials the number, the smoke curling around warm in his chest.  
  
_"Aren't you busy or something, Curly? Doubt Caz finds this an amusing distraction."_  
  
Harry grinds his teeth at the forced nonchalance in Louis' voice. He's infuriating, Louis is. Instead of a scathing reply - which he can't come up with in any case - he presses the phone closer. "Where are you?"  
  
_"Off having fun and all that. What's the saying, 'live fast, die young'?"_ It sounds ominous the way Louis says it.  
  
"Thought you'd changed that more to your liking? Something about 'having fun and being spontaneous' or some shit?"  
  
He can almost see him shrug. _"Reckon they probably had it right the first time."_  
  
_Whatever that fucking means_. It's like Louis' dead set on talking in riddles since he's come back from god fucking knows where. He puts out the cigarette after a couple of drags, bringing a hand up to rub his face. "Who's with you?"  
  
_"Are you really checking up on me, Styles?"_  
  
"I'm making sure you're still in the fucking country. So what?"  
  
_"Charming as that is,_ " Louis sounds like he's about to make another smartass comment but thinks better of it. _"Zayn's fallen asleep on my lap."_  
  
Harry sighs the breath he didn't know he holding. "Okay. Okay."  
  
Louis sounds like he's swallowing on the other line. _"I'm fine, Harry."_  
  
"You've been avoiding me."  
  
_"You've been otherwise preoccupied."_ It's like he can't help himself but be a stupid twat. He wonders briefly what kind of shit he's on. There's no way Louis is stone cold sober at three in the morning, even though he sounds it.  
  
"Louis, don't even start..."  
  
_"I'm not the one starting anything. You're the one who called from your girlfriend's."_  
  
Harry goes cold all over. "What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
Louis makes a sound, like he's regretting opening his mouth. _"I...nothing. Forget it, honestly. I - have to go, Haz."_  
  
That seems about the gist of most of their conversations lately, Harry thinks. "Fine."  
  
There's a pause. _"See you in the morning?"_ It's like a lifeline. He smiles despite himself and holds the phone a little closer.  
  
"Yeah, Lou. See you tomorrow." He breathes down the line a moment longer and it feels like they're both leaving something implied there.  
  
It's enough.

 

***

  
Harry hurries down the empty hallways, keeping a sheepish eye out for any of the teachers he can't charm himself out of a detention from. He feels a bit stupid running from corner to corner but there's no taking chances where Mr. Cowell is concerned, so it takes him a good ten minutes to leave the school grounds and bang on the bonnet of Louis' car. All four of them jump violently before they notice him and he's treated to a synchronised double finger by Zayn and Niall. Liam waves weakly - he's always a bit more nervous than the rest of them about bunking off - but Louis just smiles a small smile and opens the passenger door for him. Harry slides in, throwing his rucksack in the back - "Ow! You fuck! Why've you got BRICKS in here?" - and matches Louis' smile, reaching a thumb out to pat the pink skin under Louis' eye; it's become something of a ritual every time he sees him.  
  
_I'm fine_ , Louis mouths, shaking his head but it's fond and Harry keeps his hand there just a moment longer than is probably allowed. Louis turns they key in the ignition and backs out of his illegal parking, hand behind Harry's seat, fingers brushing through his hair. Harry sees NIall in the rearview mirror elbow Liam and nudge his head towards Louis' hand; they both smile at the same time and Harry feels his face heat up a little bit, something warm uncoiling in his stomach.  
  
“Where we going then?” Zayn asks in a long suffering voice, leaning over to dig his chin in Louis outstretched arm until he yelps.  
  
“Ow, Malik, what was that for?”  
  
“Thinking you’re being subtle,” Zayn narrows his eyes at them both through the mirror. Louis pointedly doesn’t reply.  
  
“But, really, where are we going? I don’t trust you behind the wheel, no offence, Lou.”  
  
“You wound me, Li. You’ll just have to see.”  
  
“You have no idea do you?” Harry smiles. Louis’ eyes flit over to him, careful.  
  
“Not a clue. I just needed to get away a bit, I s’pose.”  
  
“Haven’t you done enough o’ that, Lou?” Harry’s fast to turn back and glare at Zayn, who merely raises his eyebrows and refuses to stop frowning at Louis’ back. Louis sighs.  
  
“Guess I deserved that. Are you going to keep hitting me with that or...?”  
  
“‘S long as you need it, mate.”  
  
There’s something unspoken here and Harry has the uncomfortable feeling it has to do with him. He shuffles in his seat, not looking at anyone, until he pulls out a bag he’d nabbed from Nick yesterday. “Well, I’ve got goodies, if anyone’s interested.”  
  
“Excellent, Harold,” Louis makes to grab the bag off him but Zayn’s there first, fishing it from Harry’s hands.  
  
“Think you’ve ‘ad your fill of these, babe,” Zayn says, pocketing the bag. “You remember throwing up in my living room, yeah?”  
  
Harry shakes his head as frantically as he can without Louis noticing but it’s a lost cause. Louis’ got a deep frown on his forehead and his fingers have stopped beating nervously against the wheel. He’s not even looking at the road anymore; his eyes keep flicking from Harry to the boys at the back. “What are you talking about?”  
  
“Nothing, Lou, just keep your eyes on the road, yeah?”  
  
“It’s not _nothing,_ Harry,” Zayn mutters. Niall has a hand tight on his knee, as though trying to keep him calm.  
  
“Then would you tell me what _nothing_ is?” Louis swerves the car violently and Harry feels the seatbelt digging into his chest. Louis brings them to a halt, somewhere on the side of a road, and slams the door shut as he gets out.  
  
“Zayn, what the fuck?” Harry whispers, unclipping himself from the seat. He’s a little afraid to go outside and meet Louis.  
  
“Well, someone had to fucking say it!”  
  
“Get out! All of you!” Louis is practically digging his hands into the car and they all start to move reluctantly. Even Zayn looks half terrified now. They shuffle out, one by one, and lean awkwardly against the car, huddled close. Louis looks unimpressed as he stands opposite them.  
  
“You,” he points at Zayn. “Explain.”  
  
“You can’t boss me around, Louis -”  
  
“Can’t I?” He sounds murderous. “Zayn, you told me - you said everything was fine!”  
  
“You came home and you’d just been punched to fucking death, what was I supposed to say?”  
  
‘You said you’d look after him -”  
  
“I’m not a _kid_ , Louis -” Harry protests, his head spinning a little.  
  
“And I’m not his fucking babysitter! Just because you left and he blew off the handle! He wasn’t the only one who was messed up, Louis!”  
  
Louis clamps his mouth shut, his jaw clenched. Liam attempts a placating gesture, wrapping a hand around Loui’s forearm and Harry gasps for the breath he didn’t know he was holding when Louis doesn’t shrug him off. He shuts his eyes, trying to breathe evenly and then looks up again, eyes steely and blue. “I don’t know why you all think I’m fucking responsible for you -”  
  
“No one thinks that, Lou,” Niall murmurs but Zayn gives him a look and he shuts down, looking exhausted.  
  
“We’re all fucked up, Louis, and you most of all, but for some bloody reason, we all fall apart when you fuck off to Neverland or wherever the hell you go -”  
  
“ _Zayn.”_ Liam’s tone is a warning. Niall plucks up the courage to bunch his fingers in Zayn’s shirt and pull him against him and Zayn must be done, drained of whatever was propelling him to speak, because he just falls back and shuts his eyes.  
  
“You finished?” Louis’ voice sounds strangled and he’s staring at Zayn like he’s waiting for more; he hasn’t looked at Harry at all. Zayn smiles softly from Niall’s shoulder.  
  
“Yeah, think so.”  
  
Liam lets go of Louis finally, looking a little reluctant, but Louis smiles in reassurance. It’s only then that Louis makes a physical effort to turn to Harry, every line of his face making him look older, as though he’s carrying the weight on the world on him; Harry feels like something is choking him.  
  
“What the hell did you do? And don’t say nothing, Harry. Don’t you dare.” He comes closer, eyes boring into him.  
  
“I...It was just a bit of messing around, Lou. I don’t - I don’t have to justify any of this.” He throws a look at Zayn, who laughs mirthlessly.  
  
“ _Harry.”_  
  
“I...” He wants to say fuck off, it’s not your fucking problem anymore, he wants to push Louis back and signal the first car he sees and drive but he does neither, his whole resolve (if he had any in the first place) crumbling. There’s a tremble to his lips as he opens his mouth and he presses his nails into his palm to stop himself from sobbing. “You were gone. You were gone without me, OK? That’s it, that’s all.”  
  
“You fucking idiot, “ Louis murmurs but there’s no bite in it. Both of his hands press tightly over Harry’s face and the words ghost over Harry’s mouth, slow and repeated. _I’m sorry._  
  
“Sorry I’m a mess,” Harry laughs, interlocking their fingers over his neck and squeezing.  
  
“Sorry I’m a worse mess. I fucking love you, you know.” And it’s small and private and it makes Harry feel lightheaded until Louis turns, hand still tight in Harry’s. “You too, you miserable twats.”  
  
“Look who’s talking,” Zayn pouts but bows into the hug. Harry shuffles closer, warm between Louis and Liam and he isn’t sure whether it’s best to laugh or cry at the fucked mess they all are. He settles for both and pulls Louis in, fingers digging into his waist and not letting go.

 

***

  
Niall is screaming his head off on the pitch, his arms wide and expectant when Louis launches himself on him, nearly choking him as he snakes every limb around him. They run around blindly until the rest of the team catches up with them and throws them both to the ground, Liam coming up on top and yelling abuse he’ll feel guilty about later at the losing team.  
  
“Scored then, did they? About time.”  
  
Harry looks up from where he’s sitting in the stands and pulls out his headphones, jerking his head to the seat next to him. Zayn sits one step higher, cushioning his chin over Harry’s curls and pressing both hands on his shoulders.  
  
“Niall slipped through their defense. They never seem to notice him," Harry hums, leaning back as Zayn pets his hair.  
  
“It’s ‘cos Lou’s so damn loud, you can't look at anyone else."  
  
Harry watches as Louis takes possession of the ball again, everyone's eyes easily on him. "Animal magnetism."  
  
"That just works with you, babes," Zayn mutters fondly.  
  
"You're none of you immune to it, thanks very much," Harry pouts, his head now resting in Zayn's lap. There's no need to watch the game really, he already knows who'll win.  
  
"None of us are head over heels though, you've got us beat there." It's quiet, the ways he says it, as though its a secret or something precious and Harry appreciates that much.  
  
"Head over heels, eh?"  
  
"You've never been the subtle one, _Harreh_."  
  
Harry gets more comfortable, slipping between Zayn's legs and leaning against his chest, trying not to drift off at the little tugs and pulls at his hair. "It's hard not to, though, isn't it?"  
  
"Hard not to what?"  
  
"Fall." He smiles and it hurts, just a bit,  to finally give it words. “Head over heels.”  
  
Zayn sighs heavily and pulls Harry closer. "The hardest.”

 

***

  
Mum made him promise – had his hands flat on the table, narrowed her eyes at his ‘bloody paradox of a face’ (firmly divided between devil and angel, she says) and arched her eyebrows to full effect  until she was sure he wasn’t lying when he said he’d only call the lads over for pizza and a film. He’s feeling a bit guilty, truth be told, like he always does when he lets Louis corner him into his schemes but it’s not like the idea never occurred to him. And, since their bloody heart to heart on the M6 or wherever it was, he hasn’t been able to say no to Louis. ‘Guilt overriding guilt’, Zayn muttered, but Harry pretended not to hear him, lugging a six-pack of cheap beer over his shoulders and signaling them to leave everything in the kitchen.  
  
Still, his head’s already buzzing pleasantly and he’s not that concerned about the mess the house has turned into. He can see a couple of glasses broken on the living room floor, girls in heels and torn up Converse stepping over them unconcerned, but he’s distracted too easily by the scene around him; there’s a haze of smoke he recognizes as Niall’s particular kind of spliff, cans of Red Bull are pooled around Zayn’s feet as he lets himself be backed into the corner by an eager leggy blonde and Liam is drunk enough to be persuaded that proving his boxing skills on one of his dick friends is an _excellent_ plan. Harry’s fairly sure the last one has been orchestrated by Louis (only Louis could get Liam to land a punch on someone he supposedly likes) and that makes him look up from where he’s been sitting, listening to rank playlists that Nick and his bunch of Uni friends think are the shit.  
  
He gets up with a giddy laugh – he’s not really drunk or high, just reveling in second hand everything – and walks through the house he barely recognizes, making a face when he spots his sister doing some sort of synchronized dance move with some git he doesn’t know but already hates. He takes his phone out while he searches and smiles softly at the text he must have missed. _come by when you’re done? got tests to mark till late xx_ The pool of excitement that’s always there when he thinks about Caroline comes back strong and he’s about to hit dial when stumbles into the garden and sees Louis sucking face with some dumbfuck against the wall. He doesn’t let his mobile fall and he doesn’t gasp or whimper or anything dramatic like that but it’s like his stomach’s dropped down to his feet and he feels bile rising up to his throat.  
  
His voice sounds like someone’s taken a saw at it and it hurts to stutter the words out. “L-Louis.” He hates how hurt he sounds, like every limb in his body has been pulled and torn and sewn together again recklessly, because, no, he’s not hurt, he’s _fucking angry._ He thinks for a moment that punching this guy – Aiden, he thinks his name is but does it even matter really – would be a good idea; then he realizes he’s not Liam and he’s never hurt another human being in his life and he knows that if he doesn’t do it now, over this, over _Louis,_ chances are he never will. The thought sobers him up and he blinks, meeting Louis’ eyes and then backing out fast, pushing through the crowd of sweaty teenagers he hates. He thinks he manages to sneak a ‘fuck you’ in between that sounds less like a sob.  
  
There are two (or three, or four, like he can count) people fucking in his room, loud and disgusting, and normally he’d laugh and snap a picture like a twat but now he yells himself hoarse and kicks them out. The room is too small, too suffocating, but at least he’s alone, away from anyone downstairs. He sits on the edge of his bed, staring down at his hands, and it takes every ounce of concentration on his breathing to stop himself from throwing up on the ridiculous fluffy rug he’d insisted on having when he was ten. He can only hear the roaring in his ears but it’s dark so he knows when the door opens and someone slips in. He tenses all over and scoots to the end of the bed, just shy of the window, like some kind of wounded animal, because it’s like a sixth sense, really, he’s always been too aware of Louis.  
  
“Haz.” It’s the voice that makes him look up; not soft and soothing, not his _Harry_ voice (and he wants to laugh at himself at that, because who assigns himself someone’s tone?) but harsh, like he’s accusing him of something. Louis is standing over him, a hand’s breadth away, looking disheveled,  hair a mess because of Aiden’s fingers, shirt hastily done up again, but it’s his lips that make Harry press a palm over his own mouth and physically stop himself from retching; they’re red and wet and bruised by someone else’s tongue and teeth.  
  
He feels Louis’ hand grab the back of his neck, almost rough, and Harry wills himself not to let out a moan because he won’t, he _won’t_ show Louis that, not now, not ever. “What the fuck, Harry.” It’s not a question at all. He grinds his teeth and makes a half-hearted effort to pull away but Louis is not letting go and Harry’s not that strong anyway. “Harry,” he says again, his shiny face inches from Harry’s and it’s like he’s taunting him. “What was that?”

  
“What.” He can be his own brand of stupidly stubborn too.  
  
“You know what, you fucking wanker.”  
  
“What the hell were _you_ doing, Lou.”  
  
“I _was_ trying to get off. I didn’t realize I had to ask your permission. Can I get fucked in your house, _Haz?_ ”  Louis’ tone is mocking now, his fingers digging into Harry’s skull and it sends something down his spine he doesn’t want to admit to.  
  
“You can do whatever the fuck you want, apparently.”  
  
“What the fuck does that mean.”  
  
“You were going to fuck _him.”_ He’s not quite sure when he started hysterically laughing. Louis still hasn’t let go.  
  
“I can fuck whoever I want. Exactly the same as you can.”  
  
The laugh dies in Harry’s throat. “Is this you getting back at me?”  
  
It’s Louis’ turn to laugh. “It’s not a competition, Harry! My life doesn’t revolve around who you fuck, whether you like to think it does or not.”  
  
“I don’t -”  
  
“Don’t give me any of your bullshit, Harry, or I swear to god -”  
  
“What? You’re going to leave again? Run away?”  
  
“I’m not running away from anything -”  
  
“ _Liar.”_  
  
Louis’ jaw is set and he finally pulls his hand away from Harry, falling back until he hits the wardrobe. “Don’t ever say that again. You know, _you know_ I’ve never lied to you.”  
  
“Do I?” Harry sneers, getting up and he feels a kind of vindictive pleasure when he towers over Louis. It washes away from him instantly, though, when he sees Louis visibly flinch at his words, and then he’s terrified because there was a balance between them once and ever since Louis left, it’s gone, fucked up and left a mess in its place.  
  
Louis’ eyes are bright with something he can’t quite place and he’s not prepared in the slightest when he bunches both his fists in Harry’s shirt and shoves Harry against him, trapping his lower lip between his teeth. It hurts, more than any other kiss they’ve shared – and how many has that been, only a handful and all of them drunk and forgotten. They fit together though, always have and they slide their heads until the angle’s right, lips swollen and desperate and Harry sighs into it, Louis’ fingers threading through his tangled hair.  
  
“I hate you,” Louis mumbles over his mouth, hands roaming down Harry’s back.  
  
“See? You do lie,” Harry laughs but it sounds more like a sob. He presses Louis closer just to pretend it doesn’t.  
  
“I _hate_ you.”  
  
It doesn’t go faster or more frenzied after that; it feels like one or both of them is giving up until it’s just them, Harry and Louis, kissing words out of each other’s mouth that they don’t want to hear.  
  
“I have to – go. This is…I have to go.”  
  
“Lou, don’t -”  
  
“I’ll be back. I promise.” Louis holds him and he feels like a kid, small and boneless and frail. He presses a kiss to Harry’s temple – soft and gentle this time, like he might actually break, or maybe both of them, maybe they’ll both break – and then Louis’ gone and Harry falls back onto his bed, exhausted, half wondering if it was all a fucking dream.  
  
Part of him hopes he’ll wake up.

 

***

  
He’s grounded for a week and he doesn’t even protest that it’s half term and the least he deserves is a bit of down time. He nods mutely while his mum thunders around the house, shuts his eyes when she calms down and palms his cheeks and falls to bed when she goes to work and he’s left alone.  
  
He still stinks faintly of Zayn’s fags and stale booze, no matter how liberal he is with Gemma’s shampoo. The whole house seems to be sagging under the remnants of the party; foam stuck and dried on the walls, the garden littered with beer bottles, the washing basket overflowing with sheets and pillow covers Mum made them both promise to clean and never speak of again. At the very least, he’s grateful for the quiet the morning’s brought; everyone left when the first commuters’ cars started leaving the nearby houses until it was only Zayn and Niall huddled up in Gemma’s bed and none of them had the heart to kick them out. He checks in on them again when he’s woken up from a miserable attempt at sleep in the afternoon – Niall is curled around Zayn, forehead buried into Zayn’s chest, both of them breathing heavily and there’s a stab of something he doesn’t want to call jealousy nagging at him as he shuts the door.  
  
Gem is still sprawled on the sofa, pink pyjamas making her look deceptively innocent (probably why Mum decided not to punish her), as Harry walks around her, feet bare against the tiles. The kettle is still warm and he makes himself a pitiful cup of tea – too much milk and sugar but the thought of anything stronger makes his head swim. He pads over to the terrace and sits at the steps that lead to the garden, his torso erupting in goosebumps at the cold.  
  
A while later, he hears murmuring from the kitchen and the tell-tale aroma of coffee makes him budge over until Zayn fits on the steps with him, his fingers wrapped around a cup of the watery brew Gemma makes. Harry runs a hand through his damp hair with a small smile – really, it’s infuriating how good Zayn can look after a fucked up night out, even in his glasses and Harry’s clothes that are too big for him. He digs a thumb into Zayn’s neck, where a purple bruise’s been sucked, just to be a prick.  
  
“Fuck off, Harry.”  
  
“Niall’s handiwork?”  
  
Zayn sticks out his tongue and doesn’t dignify that with a response until he takes another sip of coffee and frowns at the clouds overhead. “Actually, it might have been. He gets handsy when he drinks tequila.”  
  
“Doesn’t look like he used his hands for that.” Harry makes an obnoxious sucking noise with his mouth.  
  
“You’re the worst.”  
  
He doesn’t argue with that. They sit in companionable silence, occasionally grinning at Gemma and Niall’s arguing about how many ingredients is too many ingredients to put in pasta sauce. The front door rings when the spaghetti’s boiling and Niall isn’t quiet when he yells ‘LIAM’S ALIVE!’. Zayn shakes his head and gets up to assume his nursing-Liam-through-a-hangover duties, while Harry puts down his half-drunk cuppa and calls Caroline to apologise about last night. He hears the smile in her voice when she answers and it’s easy, for the moment, to fall into a conversation that doesn’t feel like salt over a wound. They talk for what feels like hours and it’s not sad when he says _bye, see you later_ , even though he knows it’s probably not true.  
  
“ _Dinner’s ready, Harry!_ ”  
  
Someone’s made an effort to set the table – Liam, probably feeling guilty over not staying over to tidy up – and they all crowd around it, wincing as plates and cutlery bang on the table. He counts the plates before he sits down – six – and raises his eyebrows in silent question at Zayn.  
  
“He stayed at mine,” Liam answers softly instead, still wearing sunglasses even though Niall turned the lights all the way down. He brushes Harry’s arm in a sort-of sympathetic gesture, puppy face in full effect. “He’ll be here soon.” All three of them share a look as Harry nods; that tells him they know at least a little of what happened last night.  
  
“I’d ask,” Gemma huffs, twirling the spaghetti with her fork, her eyes narrow, “but I have a feeling I really don’t want to know.”  
  
“You don’t,” Zayn and Niall reply in unison. Liam laughs and then groans at the sound, cradling his head in his hands.  
  
By some unspoken agreement they decide that the dishes are too much of an effort to make right now. They dutifully dump them in the sink and Niall splashes some water half-heartedly over them – “Least I can do”, he shrugs – and then they collapse around the living room in a heap. Gemma falls asleep instantly, legs dangling over the armchair and Liam takes Zayn’s offered lap with a grateful smile, curling up until he’s comfortable. Niall takes over the remote and settles on _Friends_ reruns, always a safe choice.  
  
The knock on the door comes when one of those antique shows Harry will never admit he finds interesting is playing on the telly. He blinks the sleep from his eyes and feels his chest tighten, getting up only when Zayn finally nudges him with his foot and mutters, “It’s only Louis, you prat.”  
  
His fingers flex over the doorknob and it takes him a minute to muster up the courage to finally open. Louis stands a little back as the door swings, still in his clothes from last night, all creased and smoky, his hair pushed under one of Harry’s beanies. Harry feels exposed in nothing but a well-worn pair of sweatpants he’s managed to wear a hole into, arms crossed over his chest defensively.  
  
“Hey,” Louis croaks out.  
  
“Hey,” Harry mirrors, moving to the left to let Louis through. Their sides brush together and Harry thinks for a moment how easy Louis fits, his chin tucked into Harry’s collarbone. He pushes the thought away – there’s no need for it at all – and follows Louis to the living room, leaning against the door jamb. He watches Louis do the rounds, smiling at sleeping Gemma, pressing a kiss to Niall’s cheek, running a hand over Liam’s hair. He kneels at Zayn and Harry pointedly looks away, not wanting to hear anything. It’s quiet though, and no one sounds angry and Zayn nods, once, before squeezing Louis’ hand and pushing him to the door.  
  
“There’s food. If you want,” he whispers when they get to his bedroom. “Niall cooked.”  
  
Louis shakes his head, settling on Harry’s bed, his back to the wall, toeing his Converse off. “I’m not hungry.”  
  
Harry frowns despite himself. “You’ve not eaten anything, Lou.”  
  
“I’ll have something later, it’s fine.”  
  
Harry sighs, drawing up his knees where he’s folded himself on the window sill. “I’ll do pancakes if you promise to eat. Yeah?”  
  
Louis bites his lips. “Alright.” Harry doesn’t remember him refusing Harry’s cooking even once; it’s nice to think some things never change.  
  
“Remember Year Six?” Louis says suddenly, his eyebrows furrowed. Harry resists the urge to smile; typical Louis, to start the conversation in the most nonsensical way possible.  
  
“Yeah. First time we smoked a spliff. Headmaster nearly caught us.”  
  
“Was that then? Huh,” Louis laughs distractedly. “No, I didn’t mean that, though. Remember Walsh’s class? Project of the year?”  
  
Harry frowns, his cheeks heating up just a bit as he realizes what Louis’ talking about. “I – yeah, I remember.”  
  
“’Favourite Person’. I picked Giggsy. Wrote a whole essay and everything. Don’t think I’ve ever felt more accomplished.”  
  
Harry gives up on trying not to smile. Louis had gone on about his ‘Giggsy Project’ for months, refusing to wear anything other than the jersey with the number 11. He remembers bearing the brunt of most of Louis’ mania, watching what felt like every Manchester United match since 1990 and offering himself as Louis’ human show-and-tell board.  
  
Louis’ voice is small as he continues. “You didn’t want to show me yours. Said it was a surprise. I was pretty miffed at you.”  
  
Harry snorts. “That’s one way of putting it. I had to go to school with felt-tip all over my face.”  
  
Louis looks contrite, if anything. “Sorry I was a dick when I was twelve.”  
  
Harry rolls his eyes and unfolds himself from the window, crawling over the bed until he’s sitting next to Louis, knees drawn under his chin, their arms brushing against each other. He pokes him in the ribs where he knows he’s ticklish. “You took Zayn’s paint and wrote ‘tosser’ all over your forehead. Safe to say you made up for it.”  
Louis giggles and pins Harry’s wrists down in his lap to stop him. “No tickling, I’m trying to be serious here.”  
  
“’Trying’ being the operative word.”  
  
He keeps a hold of Harry’s wrists – not firm though, just there, hands small over Harry’s – and leans with his shoulder against the wall, finally looking at him. It’s always pretty flooring how blue his eyes are. “D’you remember who your favourite person was?”  
  
Harry feels the colour rush to his face again. “Course I do. Making a fool of yourself in primary school isn’t something you forget,” he rasps out. Louis frowns.  
  
“I never thought you made a fool of yourself.”  
  
“Well,” Harry says, more to fill the silence than anything else. Louis’ taken to drawing circles on the back of Harry’s wrists with his thumb. “It’s still true, you know.”  
  
“What is.”  
  
“You’re still my favourite person.”  
  
Louis’ fingers don’t stop making shapes on Harry’s skin. “Don’t understand why.”  
  
“I’ll kick you to the curb when I meet Mick Jagger, I promise.”  
  
Louis rolls his eyes, face turned down, but the smile doesn’t escape Harry. “You’re my favourite person too, you know.”  
  
“More than Giggs?”  
  
“It’s close. But yeah.”  
  
It’s a little hard to concentrate on anything other than Louis’ fingers on his pulse points. He makes himself breathe evenly, glad his knees are covering any reaction his body might be having to this. “Why did you leave last night?” he asks finally, his voice painfully rough.  
  
“Because I wouldn’t have been able to stop,” Louis says simply, hands now tracing Harry’s forearms.  
  
“I didn’t want you to stop.”  
  
“Don’t you think I’ve fucked everything up enough?”  
  
Harry pulls himself away at that, chest practically caving in at the words. “You think you and me _fucking_ would fuck everything up?”  
  
Louis looks terrified. “I can barely be a good best friend, Harry.”  
  
“Don’t – don’t say that. I’ll be the judge that, OK? It’s not all on you.”  
  
“Haz, no -”  
  
But Harry shuts him up, moving until he’s locked Louis between his shoulders and the wall, swallowing all of Louis’ words. He can feel hands press to his chest, as though to push him away, but then Louis moans when he realizes there’s no clothing to protect him there. The breath is knocked out of him when Louis shoves, their mouths still connected, and Harry falls back, Louis’ palms on either side of his head, legs framing Harry’s thighs. He fumbles with Louis’ shirt, finally giving up and tearing half of it off and Louis just bites down harder, almost drawing blood when Harry scrapes his nails across his abdomen.    
  
Louis distracts him by sucking a bruise into his collarbone and Harry’s almost gone, hands numb as he tries to unbuckle Louis’ jeans. He makes a muffled noise of protest when Louis drags his teeth just under his jaw and retaliates by spinning them, making Louis land with an ‘oomph’ underneath him. He lifts himself off to help roll his jeans down, mouth still intent on marking Harry’s neck. Someone – Harry’s not sure who, they seem to be one and the same now – breathes a sigh out when there’s nothing but skin between them finally and he can feel his eyes wet now, as he presses himself down, as close as he can, because even this isn’t enough. Louis’ hands come up to his cheeks, pulling him a little back, nudging their noses together as they both pant out.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
“Hey.” It’s half a sob and half a laugh but Louis nods, like he understands. And, of course he does, he’s Louis, and he’s Harry, of _course_ he understands. His hand travels down and he strokes Harry softly, dragging a moan out of him that Harry would laugh at if he cared enough right now. He breathes roughly into Louis neck, stuttering out words that make no sense with every stroke and it takes every ounce of strength in him to steady himself on his arms and not fall boneless on Louis. His head hurts, breathing out whenever Louis’ fingers tighten and twist, his other hand scratching lines down Harry’s back. It’s too much finally; he feels his body shiver at Louis’ touch and he can’t control the mantra of _LouisLouisLouis_ that escapes his mouth as he drops, exhausted, into Louis’ side.  
  
“Hello, beautiful,” Louis murmurs, pressing a kiss to Harry’s nose.  
  
“Need help with that?” Harry arches an eyebrow, grinning pointedly at Louis’ erection. Louis laughs.  
  
“Not too much, to be honest. But as long as you’re offering.”  
  
He kisses him through it, drinking every gasp and pulling back just enough to marvel at Louis’ face, flushed and warm and every inch of it adored. He’s drowsy already, eyes lidded and concentrated only on Louis, and he mutters a whispered thank you when he feels Louis wiping him down, lips ghosting over Harry's neck. He inches closer as Louis lies next to him, legs tangled together, Louis’ head fitting exactly in the space between Harry’s neck and shoulder.  
  
“Will you tell me, ever, where you went? When you left?” The _left me_ goes unsaid.  
  
“One day, Haz. I promise.”  
  
Harry nods, smiling into Louis’ hair. “Stay…tonight,” he whispers, just before he drops off. It’s still there, the fear that he’s going to wake up alone again.  
  
“I’m staying.”  
  
“And you’ll be here in the morning?”  
  
Louis’ fingers tangle with his own and grip tight. “And I’ll be here in the morning.”


End file.
